Touch Me There
by OoZolaoO
Summary: Quinn sees a different side of Santana when she breaks down at a party. Brittana, rated T for language.


**A/N: **I swear I've been cursing ten times more since I started writing Santana. But I like her. I feel for her.

Tons of love for my dear heart **klemonademouth**, and aaaaalso I don't own Glee. Quel suprise.

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><p>Santana balled her fists and tried to swallow her urge to murder someone. Fucking Quinn, dragging her to this fucking party. It wasn't even someone they were friends with. A Cheerios mom had insisted ex-squad members be invited to 'boost school spirit,' or some hokey shit like that.<p>

_School spirit my ass_, Santana thought wryly, scoping the room with vague interest. She doubted Miranda even knew she and Quinn were there. Her suspicions were confirmed - she spotted the lanky brunette with a slow-witted lacrosse player she vaguely remembered banging freshman year. The dude had his hand so far up Miranda's skirt Santana expected to see it come out the girl's ear. Santana smirked. The guy looked like he had moves, but he was limp as a dead fish in bed.

Santana snapped back to reality as a couple of hockey players stumbled into her, one of them spilling lukewarm booze down her front. She yelped and reacted instantly, hauling back and slugging the closest douche square in the nose. He swore and jerked back a little, though he looked so plastered she didn't know how lucid he was.

_He'll wake up tomorrow and wonder who the hell broke his nose,_ Santana mused as she drew further into the corner, pulling herself out of the fray to lick her wounds. Not too bad for one of Miranda's parties. She'd been here a little over an hour, and she was mildly inebriated, smelled like stale Sam Adams, and was limping a little on a toe she figured a haphazard boot had crushed. Not bad at all. The last time she and the gang had come to Miranda's, Britt had ended up with a gruesomely broken wrist after getting smashed in a drunken conga line. Thankfully her dad had been home to drive them to the hospital - she was freaking out more than Brittany.

Santana didn't think the little blonde remembered much of that night. The memory of her head in her lap made her cringe, and she shook herself from her memories. Brittany wasn't here tonight. Santana was alone, while her blonde beauty went on a date with Artie. She bit down on her lip. Beaten by a guy who didn't even have legs. She was pathetic.

She grabbed a shot glass from a smashed liquor cabinet and helped herself to a nearby bottle of...something. It had alcohol in it and didn't taste like horse ass. She didn't really give a damn otherwise.

By the time Quinn reappeared, Santana had drunk herself into a haze of misery that was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. The blonde eyed her with a sort of sardonic amusement.

"Having fun?" She had to yell to pitch her voice over the pounding bass shaking the dance floor. Santana rolled her eyes.

"Like hell I am," she meant to reply, but it came out a little funny. Maybe she was drunker than she thought.

"Free booze, and the room smells like sex and body odor. Too bad Puckerman's not here. This is his kind of party." Quinn's scathing gaze swept the room.

Santana shook her head a little too fervently. Ow, that hurt. "He's here!" she managed to get out. "I saw him over on the other side."

Quinn just clicked her tongue, though Santana noticed she looked a little more hurt than she let on. "Hoping he'd swoop in and sex you up?" Santana said, her eyes flashing cruelly. "Sorry, looks like he's going more for brunettes today. But you didn't have much of a chance on blonde week anyway."

Quinn's head whipped around in a flash. Her carefully-crafted curls slapped messily against her neck, hanging like loose windchimes. "What, you took a break from Brittany long enough to try on dudes for a day or so?"

Santana went white as a feeling like icy water spread through her body. "I don't know what you're talking about." She managed to retain a little dignity as she fixed her best bitch-glare on Quinn. The alcohol burned in her veins, making her bolder. But she could feel the absolute loneliness welling beneath her initial intoxication. Good god, she was so _alone_.

But Quinn wasn't lingering on her comment about Brittany; she had turned her scathing glare to the rest of the room. Dozens of hot, sweaty bodies grinding against each other under the dazzling lights pulsing in time to the bass throbbing like the heartbeat of a massive beast. She watched them with a haughty sort of disgust Santana knew very well - she used it herself to cover for her softer emotions.

Quinn let out a soft sigh that Santana felt more than heard, and the Latina gave her a sideways glance. "Missing Puck?" She inquired rudely. Quinn shot her a glare.

"I'm dating _Finn_, Santana," she replied firmly. "I don't switch partners every week like _some_people do." Her tone made it clear who 'some people' included.

Santana wasn't sure what happened next. Maybe it was the sting of Quinn's tongue, though it was probably the burgeoning effects of the alcohol. Brittany affectionately called her the weepy drunk, and god was it true. But Santana broke down, right there in the corner of slutty Miranda's living room, surrounded by booze and sex and too much noise.

So Santana started crying, great heaving sobs that hurt her throat and made her shake all over. Because hell - Santana was _alone_. Alone and fucking _wrong_and really just a lost little girl who just wanted to love and be loved, just like everyone else.

Quinn wasn't quite sure how to handle this new development. She hedged for a moment, glancing around to see if anyone was watching this embarrassing scene unfold. But as Santana continued to cry, gasping for air like a stranded fish, she decided that something had to be done.

"Here, San -" she took the Latina's arm hesitantly, rubbing soft circles against her skin as they used to do after particularly excruciating Cheerios workouts. "It's okay, babe. You're okay."

Quinn knew it was more than just the alcohol - though that was a pretty big factor. She knew Santana and Brittany had been fighting, knew Santana wasn't happy dating Sam. The cheerleader never would have guessed at the time that Santana felt more for Brittany than she let on, or that their complicated, confusing relationship was so much more than what met the eye. But Quinn knew that Santana was drunk and miserable, and she knew that they had once felt some sort of allegiance towards each other.

So Quinn took Santana by the hand and led her through the packed and lusty dance floor and out the door. She breathed easier in the cool night air, and she guided Santana towards her car. The Latina stumbled after her, sobbing softly as she swiped at her eyes with trembling hands. She cried quietly all the way back to Quinn's, and when Quinn led her inside and sank onto the couch next to her, Santana wrapped her arms around her and let the tears fall freely. Quinn ran her fingers through her tangled, sweaty hair, murmuring under her breath.

"You're okay, sweetheart. You're going to be okay. I promise."

And she crossed her fingers, hoping that Santana Lopez might have more luck than one Quinn Fabray.

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><p><strong>Poor 'Tana :( She just needs to end up with Brittany and be happy and okay with being Lebanese.<strong>

**ANYWAYS, if you like my stuff, check me out on tumblr! .com. I reblog a lot of Glee and Brittana and Naya and DARREN and all sorts of great stuff.**

**Cheers my darlings! Please review - reviews are like crack to me :D**


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